


Fruit of Temptation

by Keiko Kirin (sakana17)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, PWP without Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 08:13:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19422007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakana17/pseuds/Keiko%20Kirin
Summary: Crowley kisses Aziraphale. Set after the show.





	Fruit of Temptation

**Author's Note:**

> Some scholars believe the pomegranate was the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden, and this scene got into my head and here we are.

_London, now._

One sunny afternoon while they shared a park bench and observed humanity scurrying around, Aziraphale bemoaned that the gavotte had fallen out of fashion and gave a little sigh. Crowley gazed at him slowly, with meaning.

“I did so enjoy dancing,” Aziraphale explained brightly.

“Ah, yes,” Crowley said as if in agreement, remembering the dancefloors of the 1970s. His thoughts meandered back to the environment in which Aziraphale had mastered the gavotte. While he approvingly watched a grey City man argue with someone via mobile phone, Crowley asked casually, “It’s never bothered you? All the buggery? Sodomy? Fornication?” He drawled the last and glanced to catch its effect but there was none.

“Oh. Well. That’s humanity,” Aziraphale said, smiling fondly.

Crowley gave him a long look over his sunglasses, a look which Aziraphale ignored, his attention seemingly riveted on some thuggish pigeons. Crowley turned, still looking, until Aziraphale’s eyes darted his way.

“Were you ever tempted by any of it?” He asked this as though the answer didn’t matter to him at all.

“What? No.” Aziraphale did not feign shock but he frowned slightly adorably. “No. Never. Well…” His denials wavered and faded.

“Oh?” Crowley prompted, leaning closer. _Who’s been a naughty angel?_ he thought, delighted.

Aziraphale glanced at him, cross for a respectable moment before confiding, “The only thing of that nature that’s ever tempted me is…” He hesitated and Crowley waited for a deliciously maddening longest second ever. “…kissing.” He smiled, lips bowed, conscious of his confession and clearly unbothered by it.

Crowley immediately cupped his cheek and kissed him, a long, improper, sensuous kiss, slightly sloppy. Aziraphale’s cheek and lips and mouth were soft and sweet and warmer than expected; in general, angels were a bit cold, though of course Aziraphale could not be said to be anything in general. Aziraphale was always _specific_. The exception to the rule.

It was a satisfying kiss and became more so when Aziraphale kissed him back—as long, improper, and sensuous, but less sloppy. _Oh, yes! Naughty angel_.

When Aziraphale pulled away he regarded Crowley with a tiny frown. “You taste of pomegranate,” he said, puzzled.

“Do I?” Crowley asked as innocently as a demon was capable of.

* * *

_Judea, a few decades after the Flood._

Crowley slouched against a mud brick wall and viewed his surroundings without enthusiasm, trying to summon up the energy to go forth and sow dissent or whatever it was he was meant to be sowing. A shimmer of brightness in the market square caught his attention—was it? It was, he discovered as he slid forth among the humans, dropping a few whispers here and there about how pretty the neighbor’s wife was and what keen things golden idols were. The sea of people parted and before him the bright shimmer resolved into the oddly interesting angel, Aziraphale, in modest white.

Crowley shadowed him through the market. “Angel,” he greeted at Aziraphale’s shoulder.

Aziraphale glanced back. “Demon,” he returned the greeting politely with a smile of happy recognition. Then he caught himself, forced the smile away, and continued browsing the market stalls.

Crowley walked with him, amused that he was making Aziraphale uncomfortable with his presence.

“Nice day for it,” Crowley sniffed. “I suppose.”

“Mm,” Aziraphale said, distracted, sniffing at an alabastron of perfume. “Nice day for what?” he demanded, handing the alabastron back to the vendor and turning on Crowley. “What are you up to?”

“Me? Nothing.” Crowley shrugged. “Hardly seems worth it some days.” He followed Aziraphale to another stall and observed him fondling a length of very fine white cloth. “What are you up to?”

Aziraphale pulled his hands back from the cloth and looked abashed. “Me? Nothing at all. Just checking, you know.”

“Ah.” Crowley, disappointed, asked, “No big doings planned? No more enormous floods to wipe everyone out?”

Aziraphale gave him a little pout, displeased by the question. “No.”

They had reached the end of the market and continued strolling to the outskirts of the settlement. Crowley gazed out at the brown scrubby land and sighed. “Hardly seems worth it,” he said again. He waved his hand at the unpromising view. “I mean, look at it. Oh, sure, I can tempt the humans into anything. But between you and me, half the time they’ve done it themselves. Inventive little creatures.”

“Aren’t they just,” Aziraphale agreed, subtly frowning.

Crowley curled his lip. “But this? What’s to tempt anybody out here?”

Aziraphale was silent, which didn’t bother Crowley as his question had been rhetorical. But after a moment Aziraphale said quietly, “Pomegranates.”

Crowley stared at him. “Pomegranates?”

Aziraphale looked adorably guilty. “Pomegranates,” he confirmed, his eyes bright. “Delicious things. I do so love the taste. Ever so—” He abruptly shut his rosy lips.

“Tempting?” Crowley murmured and smiled as Aziraphale, looking away, nodded.

* * *

_London, still now._

Aziraphale kissed him again, longer and more improperly and sensuously than before. Crowley decided he didn’t mind if the kiss went on and on until the next end of the world. It was soft and sweet and naughty and strong, warm and most un-angelic and quite delicious. The kind of kiss that would make his scales ripple had he been in his original form.

“Definitely pomegranate,” Aziraphale said as he broke from the kiss. He peered at Crowley with close suspicion until his eyes softened into a limpid look that was part gentle chastisement and part eager invitation. “You taste of pomegranate,” he said with low, thrilled accusation, and lightly bopped Crowley’s lips with one fingertip.

“Do I,” Crowley said lazily, and drew him into another slow, until-the-next-end-of-the-world kiss.


End file.
